everything on hold until they’d both transferred off the ship. The possibility of Washington, D.C., tours for both of them had been exciting. But now Tombstone took a deep breath. A lousy operational assignment and separation from Tomboy seemed to be in his future. Last month, Tomboy had received notification that she had been selected for the test pilot program in Patuxent, Maryland. Pax River — the big brass ring for every naval aviator, flying the latest in tactical and surveillance aircraft, getting to see the future of naval aviation up close and personal. As much as it hurt, he knew he couldn’t have asked Tomboy to pass up that opportunity. He wouldn’t have himself, had it been offered.
Knowing it was the right thing to do didn’t make it any easier, though. They’d carved out two weeks together, and spent them in Puerto Vallarta, on the Pacific coast of southern Mexico. He smirked, thinking about the comments his colleagues had made when he’d come back from vacation with hardly a sunburn. If they only knew how much of their lovemaking had been at Tomboy’s instigation!
The speaker crackled to life again. “If you look out the port window, you might be able to see that we’ve got company,” the pilot’s voice said, a determined casualness masking what must be mounting tension in the cockpit. “It doesn’t happen often anymore, but the Soviets — excuse me, the Russians — still decide to send their Bears out to play with us from time to time. One joined on us about twenty miles back. He’s edging in a little closer than I’d like under the circumstances, but there’s not a whole helluva lot we can do about it right now. I’ll keep you posted.”
Tombstone craned his neck and stared out into the thick cotton-candy cloud cover. Slightly behind the C-130, he could make out an occasional silvery flash of light, behind them and above them. The Bear, solidly in place behind the C-130 in a perfect killing position.
Why would a Russian Bear aircraft find tracking a C-130 transport down to an almost deserted naval base of such critical interest? Tombstone felt his gut tighten and the hair on the back of his neck stand up, his instinctive reaction to the possibility of airborne danger. Something wasn’t right. What, he couldn’t say just yet, but every tactical instinct in his body was screaming warnings.
Most variants of the long-range turboprop aircraft were reconnaissance aircraft, configured for antisubmarine warfare (ASW) or electronic surveillance, with their only offensive weaponry three pairs of 23mm NR-23 guns in remotely activated dorsal and ventral turrets. While the guns were generally thought to be primarily for defense, even those weapons could pose a deadly danger to the unarmed aircraft he was in. Additionally, and far more worrisome, both the Bear-H and — G versions carried long-range air-to-surface cruise missiles.
He unbuckled his seat belt, raised one hand at the flight engineer who stood up to order him back to his seat, and went forward. He identified himself through the closed door, and stepped into the small cockpit.
“What kind of Bear?” he asked immediately.
The pilot glanced at the copilot, who was staring back aft, searching for the contact. “He’s not certain, but he thinks he caught a glimpse of a large ventral pod. If he’s right, that makes it a Bear-J.”
The copilot looked away from his binoculars for a moment. “I’m pretty sure I saw it, Admiral.”
“A Bear-J. Now what the hell would it be doing out here?” Tombstone said, puzzled.
The Bear-J was the Russians’ version of the U.S. Navy’s EA-6A and EC-130Q TACAMO aircraft. It possessed VLF — very low frequency — communications gear that enabled it to stay in contact with national command authorities and missile submarines from almost anywhere in the world. The ventral pod housed the kilometers-long trailing wire communications antenna. The aircraft was slightly over 162 feet long, with a wingspan several feet larger than that. In addition to its guns, the Bear-J could also carry the largest air-launched missiles in the CIS inventory, and sported outsize, extremely fine resolution radars.
“Have you told anyone about this?” Tombstone asked.
“Your people already know. And Jefferson — she’s on station for the Greenpeace monitoring mission.” The pilot couldn’t entirely keep an offended note out of his voice. “Admiral, we’re five minutes out from Adak.” The pilot motioned toward the extra fold-down seat in the cockpit. “If you’d like to stay, we’d be pleased to have you in the cockpit for the landing.”
As long as I park my butt before you have to order me to and I quit second-guessing you, Tombstone thought, a sliver of wry humor cutting through his concern over the Bear. The only thing worse would be if you had to explain how I got smashed up when the landing got rough. He took the hint and strapped in, turning sideways and craning his head around to look forward. He might be three grades senior to the pilot, but as long as they were in the air the pilot had command of the aircraft and was responsible for the safety of the passengers. And that included keeping senior officers from getting themselves hurt.
The copilot reported that the Bear was now maintaining position two miles behind them. He then abandoned his binoculars and resumed the prelanding checklist that the Bear had interrupted.
Flying this close together in marginal weather was a foolishness Tombstone would have never permitted in his own air wing. Not unless the tactical situation were critical.
Maybe this tour would be as interesting as his uncle had promised, after all.
Ten minutes later, the fighter was orbiting above the radar contact’s position, barely two thousand yards above the ocean. Bird Dog could see the rough chop of the waves, the massive shape of a whale moving below them, the clear sky — and nothing else.
“Where the hell did it go?” Bird Dog asked.
“Damned if I know. But it was there before.”
Bird Dog heard the frustration in Gator’s voice. “Well, maybe it was a submarine,” he said skeptically. “I suppose it’s possible. But I’d bet on the fellow down there.” He watched the whale surface, flip a tail at the aircraft, then dive.
Gator snorted. “About time you started believing me on radar contacts, Bird Dog. A biologic doesn’t give that solid of a return, if you see it at all. After the Spratly Islands, I would think you’d be a little bit more cautious about sea ghosts.”
“Just because you were right that time doesn’t mean you’re right every time.”
During the Spratly Islands, the first clue that China was behind the aggressions had come from Gator’s sighting of two intermittent contacts on radar. At the time, Bird Dog had voiced his opinion loudly that Gator had been drinking too much coffee, and was making radar contacts out of sea clutter. When an island five thousand feet below them had disintegrated into a massive cloud of tank fragments, bodies, and bamboo building materials, Bird Dog had been forced to admit that his RIO was right.
“Let’s circle this area for a while, see if we pick anything else up,” Gator said, his voice holding no trace of animosity. “I know what you think about sea ghosts, but this wasn’t one of them.”
“Okay, let me call Mother and tell her what we’re up to. Damnit, Gator, we’re going to end up tanking again if we stay out here much longer.”
“You might want to consider doing it earlier than you need to,” Gator said, tension creeping into his voice.
“Why? You holding out on me?”
“No. It’s just that I don’t want to be running short on fuel if something unexpected comes up. You know the old saying — better safe than sorry?”
“Okay, okay, you don’t have to rub it in.”
Bird Dog made the call to the carrier and told the operations specialist on the other end what they’d seen. Or rather, what they’d not seen. The OS sounded dubious, and dropped off-line for a moment to confer with the tactical action officer (TAO).
While Bird Dog was waiting for an answer, Gator gave off a sharp yelp from the backseat. “Look! And you talk about sea clutter!”
Bird Dog put the Tomcat into a tight left-hand turn and studied the ocean below. A glossy black shape was lurking just below the surface, a huge man-made leviathan. “Holy shit,” he said softly. “Jesus, Gator, what is it with you and submarines? There are probably no more than two or three Russian submarines deployed in this whole ocean, and you get me marking on top of the only one within two thousand miles.”
He could hear the smugness in Gator’s voice as the RIO replied, “Guess I’m just good.”
“Or lucky.”
The tactical channel was now chattering with demands for information, directions to maintain contact, and
